Stockholm Syndrome
by Bovineorbitor1
Summary: To Gotham, hope is a hostage. Gordon-centric, Wayne/Gordon friendship
1. The thing with feathers

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, although he might be less reluctant to hang around now that I seem to be harrassing someone else.

1

It's been just over a month since he took an axe to the Batsignal. The only sign of Batman in the meantime has been a low key whispering on the streets, but Gotham streets are always whispering something.

1

It's hard to pinpoint exactly when this began, the decline has been so gradual, but he's negotiated his options down to – (_twenty two years now, really? when he first took his gleaming badge and stuck it to his swelling chest, (twenty one years ago when he first saw that dark something swallowing the police station lights in that orphan's eyes, first blood, first claim)) - _last month, when his fingers brushed those of his wife as she passed the salt. Her eyes stayed on the tablecloth during the transaction and a cold solidity slid between his lungs, deflating them against his ribcage.

Later that evening he stood with his back to the counter and watched the clock hands migrate through time until the phone rang. And oh, the door clicked shut ever so softly behind him as he stepped out once again onto the garden path, heading to the station to help round up the details for another missing person. The birds were singing quietly in the trees and the sun was just beginning to get comfortable in its summer station: he wondered at how harmless this part of the city still appeared even though they'd moved here a few years ago when he was still only on an honest cop's wages. He could see Barbara though the kitchen window, standing with her hands in the sink and her eyes on the clock. He wanted to wave goodbye, but she still wasn't watching. He left instead.

The lights were all out when he returned home – except one, in his imagination, in the sky – and Barbara was asleep. Really asleep, because by now he knew the signs for when she was pretending. (She didn't dream a gun to her son's head every night any more than he did, and they'd neither of them tell.) He thought about being considerate for a long time while he was brushing his teeth, but upon climbing into the greatly appreciated softness of their small nest he leaned down and kissed her cheek anyway.

She smiled without opening her eyes and ran her fingers over the rim of his collarbone. The cold retreated. But that was still when.

1

She'd been up before him more and more lately, and while he appreciated the attempt to let him get what rest he could, he couldn't help but find it a little unnerving. The sheets were unattractively cool without her.

He levered himself out of bed. Downstairs, Barbara's struggles with the resistant dishwasher were audible both in the clattering sound it made and the annoyance in her voice as she warned Jimmy to hurry up and get ready for school. He supposed that they could now afford a new one, but he preferred the domesticity of going directly to her aid. They passed plates back and forth in what he hoped was companionable silence while the kids bickered over the last scrapings of their favourite cereal and on the TV someone interviewed Bruce Wayne on some subject that the billionaire seemed to have trouble distinguishing from Polo. It was a strong approximation of life as usual, and he dared think about things being close to normal again as he went scrounging for the newspaper.

**Commissioner Gordon: New Hope of Gotham? **asked the headline when he found it. Gordon looked down at the bold dark font and wondered if the sudden, paralyzing terror he felt was a confirmation of sanity.

1

"Did you see the paper?" asked Stevens, grinning a little as he tossed a file onto Gordon's desk. Gordon ignored the question in favour of flipping through the file's contents.

"There's been nothing on the Smith kid?" he asked, heart sinking. Gerry shrugged, though his expression rescued the gesture from callousness.

"Nothing. At this point..." he didn't finish the sentence, afraid to be defeatist, but Gordon knew how it would go. Usually, with missing persons in Gotham, anyone gone over a week could be assumed to be taking permanent leave. It applied doubly to children. After that point, the police would continue looking for leads, but they knew better than to expect results.

It had been six days.

He looked at the photograph in the file. The boy was about Jimmy's age, but his hair was dark and his face rounder, eyes glowing with what was probably deceptive innocence. He had one parent, a harried, too thin single mother who'd reported him gone soon after her attempt to pick him up from school had revealed his absence. Gordon could still see the way her too-frequent blinking had anticipated the tears that wouldn't quite come; the way the touches of bewilderment around her mouth and brows softened out the edge of grief. He flipped the file closed and sighed.

"All right," he said. "What else?"

1

Bruce Wayne went missing for seven years with no word, of course, in a characteristically extravagant deviation from the norm. Gordon just wishes the man would now stop turning up on the television and radio when he's trying to listen for the news.

1

All traces of the Batsignal were gone from the roof; all traces of expectation quite expunged except for Gordon himself, who lingered on –watching for something, or waiting, or just standing guard. His officers had muttered about it at first, but now seemed to accept it as their Commissioner re-branding some sort of lesson into his memory. Perhaps he was. Mostly he looked out at his city and hoped to prove a trace of constancy.

The city of Gotham was never entirely dark at night, though it was populated with shadows as well as synonymous with them, and there were few enough guiding lights. Gordon warmed his fingers against his Styrofoam coffee cup; sipped its contents of scorching midnight and contemplated being considerate for a long time - so long that the house was dark by the time he got home.

Barefoot on the threadbare carpet he hesitated outside his bedroom door, listening to the muffled sounds which crept out to join him on the landing. He let his forehead sink against the door, very softly like a knocking, for he knew he had to go in even though maybe it would have been better for both of them if he moved all his belongings to the office and let her forget about caring for him at least. Once he'd crawled in beside her anyway she worked on making her sobs silent while he rubbed her back, and in the morning neither of them could look the other in the eye even though nothing was really their fault.

They stand at the kitchen window and watch the sun migrate through the dawn until the phone rings.

1

Dawn means the seventh day. There's still been no sign.

1

AN: I shall not make many predictions for this story, since I almost invariably prove myself wrong - but it should be around three chapters long , relatively plotless, and Bruce should turn up as an actual character next chapter. I hope this comes across as reasonably Gordon-ish. I had to sacrifice some of the lines in which his voice was strongest in order to stay true to the overall tone of the chapter. A l s o , t h e f o r m a t t i n g w a s a c t i n g u p a s I t r i e d t o w r i t e t h i s , s o p l e a s e l e t m e k n o w i f s o m e t h i n g s e e m s o f f . (Edit, formatting fixed but I leave this line intact for the sheer self demonstrative value.)


	2. The More Loving One

Gordon had never previously given much thought to the emotional makeup of charity functions. He was sure now that they were a kind of secular purgatory through which the rich and the beautiful were required to fumble until they'd satisfied some unwritten code of social conduct and could ride out on the level of their blood alcohol contents. He wasn't sure what blunder of bureaucracy had resulted in his attendance, as he was neither rich nor beautiful, but for the first time he thought that he might have merited his invitation.

He had refused to partake of the orbiting trays of champagne at least three times in the first half an hour, preferring to keep his hands clenched at his side in some kind of invisible rebellion. It didn't make him feel any better, but he was pretty sure Barbara wouldn't appreciate him crawling in late _and _drunk.

Whoever had selected the music for the evening had opted for a light, bright, tinkling tone which reminded Jim of elevator music. It pervaded the room as insidiously as the corruption which he _knew _lurked behind some of these cheerful, laughing faces, but all accusation seemed to reflect away from exteriors so shiny. Gordon muffled a sigh in his moustache. It was beyond him, the strange alchemical process through which these half-drunken conversations, these dalliances and slights, were somehow transmuted into politics of the kind that could have an impact on the street. On the real world. It was beyond him, this other world, with its lights and its elevator music and its intractable, impossible shine, as though the surface was all that there was and therefore had to be polished with all the industry of the classes too rich to work. He knew of other masks he liked better.

Perhaps he was being unfair. After all, this was a charitable event, and several of those who had spoken to the assembly on behalf of the cause had seemed invested, sincere. And the money would help. There was no denying that the money would help.

On the next rotation of the champagne tray, he took a glass. It enabled him to look like he was trying to fit in, and it gave him something to put in his mouth – alternating no doubt with his foot - whenever someone stopped to make small talk. He found that he achieved greatest success with monosyllables, as his companions were usually more than happy to direct the conversation. There were one or two bad patches when they touched on the crime rates, or, delicately, on Dent, but mostly everything was smooth and easy, and allowed him the illusion that he was getting the hang of this.

He found whenever they touched on Dent he had to say something, which was inconvenient at best, but fortunately the subject was generally considered to be too heavy for this kind of gathering, and they went on to talk about Wayne's newest arm-candy and the state of homelessness in Gotham instead.

His second glass had inexplicably become half empty.

"Gordon! How wonderful to see you here!"

The booming voice belonged to an older man whose name Gordon couldn't recall, and it made him jump a little and splash alcohol on his cuffs. The slap on his back was less perturbing in comparison, though still hearty.

"I'm surprised you have the time, considering. But I suppose you need a rest after tackling all those criminals, hmmm?"

This was quite possibly true. Gordon wondered where he would have to go to get one. Bottom of the Pacific, probably.

Evidently he was supposed to answer, although the question itself gave him a headache . He was conscious of a strong desire to go home and do some paperwork. In the crowd forming around them, s omeone laughed.

He did not say:

1

It's getting worse.

The nights are longer and he stands in a post-domestic glow of streetlamps, lingering as though there is some warmth to be gained from doing so. Barbara insisted on his wearing gloves this time last year and he is obedient to the memory of her concern, which, this year, has other things to oversee. His hands still feel cold.

Overhead, the stars shine like reflections in a shallow pool, lost in textureless dark, and it's almost funny that it's never them he's looking for these days. His city edges them out in his eyes anyway : its rich, venomous luminosity which brooks no rivals the brightest thing . Even the shadowplay; nobody can say that the dark in Gotham is without character. Or...inhabitants.

It isn't until he passes that one particular streetlight which flickered out a while ago and has never been replaced that he becomes conscious of a presence behind him, hovering just beyond certainty. He stops but doesn't try to turn and look harder. Instead he sticks his cold hands in his pockets and leans back, huffing out a breath of air that he thinks maybe has been lurking in him for the last few months, like a damning secret.

"Do you have something for me?" he asks, instead of blurting anything he might regret saying, like where were you? Where were you? Or, how can we make this partnership work when you consistently fail your commitments (saving everyone I can't) like this? (except, of course, when you don't.) Don't you know that the criminals are swarming into the gaps the Joker carved, that my son can't sleep at night and my daughter hardly talks , that the police have lost whatever credit they were beginning to build before everything went back to hell? Or I'm sorry, or worse, thank you. Again. There's a little boy missing, he's my son's age, do you know where the body is?

The figure he can't see because he won't turn around says nothing for a while. Then there's a soft thump and a muffled whimper, and when Gordon looks there's Zsasz, bound hand and foot and half conscious.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says, although he's pretty sure Batman's already gone.

The shadows say, "It's going to get worse."

He says, "I know."

There's no reply beyond Zsasz's rough breathing and the background network of noise which Gotham always generates, but he lingers anyway as if there's something in particular to be gained by doing so. The expectant almost silence lasts until a car swishes by; illuminates the area and kicks three day's worth of accumulated water over the curb onto his feet.

Hell, he's tired.

He calls it in.

1

"Well, it would be nice," he said. They all laughed again and he drew himself up, worn, tired old Gordon dragging himself up by the badge and the kinks in his spine. "But considering that currently everyone's trying their best to fix what's been broken , I _don't_ have much time to devote to my own entertainment. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, ma'am, I think I have some paperwork to do at home."

He started to navigate his way out of the mini-crowd, trying not to smile at the looks he received. Surprise , even scandal, as though he were casting their communal hospitality back in their faces by plodding out of their pentagram of bright lights and cocktails back into circles more familiar to him . And then of course there was Garcia, who was aiming his best glare over the head of the society Belle with whom he was discussing fashion and which city projects needed the most support. Gordon contemplated waving back, but decided it would sharpen both the looks and the phone call he expected to get later.

Distracted by trying to judge the degree of the mayor's ire, he almost walked straight into the last human obstacle. He managed to avert a full body crash at the very last second but still contrived to step decidedly on the man's toes and elbow him in the arm. Wayne, for he it was, caught him by the shoulders and steadied him, apparently not over concerned for his feet if the sudden large grin on his face was any indication.

"Whoa, steady there, Jim," he said. "You must really _miss _that paperwork, huh?"

Their audience chuckled obediently. An image of his desk and all of its wanton disregard for the Amazon rainforest flashed briefly before Gordon's eyes, but he quickly dispelled it and focused on his next feat of diplomacy.

"Well, it's all necessary, Mr Wayne," he lied.

"That's what they try to tell me," the playboy laughed, patting him on the shoulder in a way that Gordon found slightly aggravating. "Maybe I should follow your example. What do you think, Lucius?"

Wayne Enterprise's CEO smiled wryly, glancing around the room rather than focusing his gaze intently on Gordon the way Wayne was. It was far less disconcerting. "I think the Commissioner sets an excellent example, Bruce. And as a matter of fact I do have some forms for you to look at, if you care to swing by tomorrow."

"Damn. Called my bluff again," said Wayne, releasing Gordon and turning to face the listeners with an extravagant gesture of self deprecation. They chortled again on cue. Gordon wondered if this meant that he was dismissed, but at the very least it provided an easily exploitable distraction during which he could escape. He started again for the nearest exit, but Wayne seemed to spy the movement even with his back turned because he spun around again and beamed, as though he'd temporarily forgotten the existence of example setting Commissioners but was happy to be reminded.

"I really have to get back to work, Mr Wayne," Gordon cut him off hurriedly. "There's...there's a great deal to do."

"And it all has to be done by you, does it?" The man presented a smile on a smaller scale than any Gordon had previously seen from him, and cocked his head inquiringly.

"Apparently," Gordon retorted, and then regretted it. "I have a good team, Mr Wayne. But we're stretched."

"Of course. Of course. No offense meant," Wayne waved a hand. "Well, I'm sure that the generosity of all our good friends here will turn to the Gotham PD soon enough. That should be of some help, shouldn't it?"

Gordon sighed. How could you explain to a man like this that things were never that simple? And it would _help_, what he so carelessly suggested, and Gordon needed everything that could help because he still couldn't see his way clear out of this... Gotham. But how could he explain the way things were, the state they had reverted to, when every day – night - was an endurance of decay. You did what you could, and maybe you lived to see it come to nothing. Then you did it all again. You spit-polished rust.

These people wouldn't understand. They would expect results, immediate, tangible results, or they would give up and return to their shining towers in disgust. Gotham's White Knights would always show her dirt.

He looked into Bruce Wayne's eyes and was startled to realise that he was close enough to see his own reflection twinned there in miniature. It was framed by a guileless expression that didn't quite seem to fit, perhaps because of his own presence in it, and for a second, irrationally, he dared hope for some unspecified intangible.

Then he sighed again and looked away.

"Of course, we welcome any contributions you wish to make," he said. Wayne maintained the scrutiny for a few seconds, his eyes shallow enough on ly to generate reflections, then nodded and stepped back into the crowd of his fellows.

It wasn't even his fundraiser, Gordon thought almost resentfully as he headed on out. The man just seemed to appear at all of them through some kind of social osmosis. It was remarkable how he managed to be everywhere and nowhere at once - as though he were the dream Gotham's upper classes had conjured, to mock themselves.

1

He heard the soft murmur of the television while he was still at the door, and blinked with surprise. Barbara looked up sleepily when he slid into the living room, and her expression compromised between the conflicting emotions behind it so quickly that he couldn't read any of them, and had to make do with relief when she didn't drop her head.

"You're early," she murmured.

I have work to do here, too, Gordon thought. Never mind that he didn't know how to go about it in the slightest.

For his first move, he sat down next to her on the couch - never mind the awkwardness or the way he kept his back straight and his hands on his knees, mind instead the way she didn't shuffle quite far enough over and seemed content to brush slightly against him whenever she shifted.

After a while they both went to bed and he lay beside her, holding on to his expectations, making sure they didn't go anywhere.

1

The voice rasped behind him, for once volunteering a start to the conversation. "You've stopped going to the roof."

He shrugged. "It didn't seem to be getting me anywhere."

The voice seemed to take its time in answering.

"It's better to avoid routine when you're a target of assassination attempts ," it conceded finally. Gordon chuckled and risked turning around, although getting a fix on his partner had become harder since they turned into the chess pieces which refused to stop at checkmate. He still couldn't make anything out for sure and he wondered, briefly, whether the man was more magician or ghost in his devotion to smoke and mirrors.

Then he got down to business.

"Do you have any more escaped serial killers for me?"

"Not tonight." And suddenly Batman moved and Gordon could see him, standing not quite where he'd been looking but solid and real enough, apparently hard to miss. There was something off in the weight of his gaze, and a prickle of apprehension twitched Gordon to attention.

"What is it?"

The vigilante hesitated – time was when Gordon wouldn't have noticed that, or would have attributed it to some alien process that probably had an explanation but not one he would ever hear. Now, he thought he saw a trace of fear, slick and palpable in the air between them.

"I have a request to make of you," his partner said. The city waited on the question.

1

1

1

A little rough, but I'm pleased with how quickly this story's coming. I think next chapter will be the last one. The whole middle section of this was supposed to be much shorter, but Bruce wouldn't shut up and Gordon wouldn't stop replying.

Reviews are (very) appreciated, but not necessary. I do think the phrasing here and there in this chapter is awkward, though, so any concrit would be very much appreciated. (coughliesofobligationcough)

As a last note, since this is one of my first on Gordon and I'm still working to get hold of his voice, I think this story has considerable influence in the settings and dynamics from others I've read previously on the Bruce/Gordon relationship - more so than is usually the case. Despite its unoriginality, I'm quite enjoying working on it.


	3. faith

"I'm sorry," the hero said, his voice low and human with all the flinching uncompensated complexity of that state; the rasp which usually blunted and swallowed his words subsumed itself in their cadence; their grief. The ensemble of apparitions and magicians through which Gordon had been regarding his partner tried to disappear themselves because that was the way this worked – he took whatever evidence Batman gave him on the cases which were his responsibility and on the partner who might be. This time, though, the haunting persisted, hung on a trick of perception and a layer of guilt to complement the ghosts.

(How can I let you be human? Just look how well that's gone for me.)

He did not want to think that this man – this hero – could break.

That would be giving up, which he did not wish to do.

That would be being tired and allowing tiredness, which he did not wish to think about.

(So many implications pinned on losing a legend which the rest of the city had already cast over or inverted: always standing for a bygone era: Jim Gordon.)

A rain he hadn't seen coming threw down envoys for a downpour the forecast had never mentioned, and the two they were supposed to be stood face to face in an alley saying nothing. His partner's reluctance to continue with his request was the most extended hesitation he'd ever seen in the man and he waited, expecting it to vanish into the usual brusqueness, and as the silence dragged on his expectation lengthened and stretched until it was near the breaking point of brittleness. Then the Batman opened his mouth again to continue – and Gordon found himself chuckling rather than listening.

Batman gave a look that might have been interpretable as relief, along with the more obvious enquiry.

"Sorry. Sorry. It's just...I'm glad to see you again. I was starting to think..." It seemed too foolish to say.

Batman registered the omission in Gordon's babbling; he cocked his head very slightly to the left and said, "You saw me when I gave you Zsasz." His tone was almost conversational and Gordon realised with a shock of understanding that his partner was glad they had wondered from the subject; was stalling.

He coughed anyway and shuffled his shuffle-scuffed shoes. "Yes. Yes I did. Except...well, sometimes, even now, I find myself waking up in the mornings, wondering if I dreamt our first meeting – everything since. Expecting to go to work and be Sergeant Gordon again, with all that that entails."

"A corrupt city," Batman said, looking away. "...More corrupt. But not this."

"No," said Gordon, looking at him. "Not this."

A sigh, mostly muffled but apparently unrestrainable, and the caped shoulders squared, as though Gordon's musing had made speaking equally inescapable.

"Fixing Gotham is likely to get harder from here on, Gordon. We need to have measures in place to deal with every possibility, so - if I were to...break - to go rogue in the same way that Dent did – I need to know that you would be prepared to do whatever was necessary to- "

"Stop," said Gordon.

"- disable the threat I would pose to -"

"Stop." He held up both hands and he glared. "What are you saying?"

A slight frown acknowledged his departure from the script. "Gordon."

"No. This is what you wanted to ask me? To make sure that if you were to end up like the man who endangered my city and threatened my family, I'd – do what? Shoot you down?" His hands were shaking and so was his voice: all regard for courteous acceptance of evidence flown away entirely and replaced with only his son's face; its burden of confusion as heroic Harvey lay cooling on the ground and the dogs bayed and the Dark Knight ran away.

Batman inclined his head. Gordon wanted to punch him but made do with sarcasm and what he hoped was anger encoded into every line of his body: "Being as how you took down an entire SWAT team singlehandedly, I can't imagine how you'd expect me to do that."

"I'd trust you to come up with something." It was said in a tone of cold practicality and it made Gordon's gut clench - the use of that word in this context, at this time, still from the darkness.

"I'd trust _you _not to_ put me in that situation,_" he snapped, too belligerent for a declaration of faith; too much feeling altogether. He'd stepped forward as he'd spoken and was close enough to see the slow blink that was the only sign that Batman had even registered his ire. His nails bit into his palms and it wouldn't have taken much, not much at all, to reach out and shake this hero –man- who was standing there denying himself and everything on him.

"It might be unavoidable."

"What the _hell_ does that mean?"

There was no answer, just that steady, assessing gaze, as though he hadn't already decided to gamble his life on Gordon's forbearance – ha. "You really think if you went bad you'd just let me kill you?"

The sudden weight of a gloved hand on his shoulder as it was the other, after all, who reached out. "I can only speculate," he said, and it sounded almost wry, almost as though he were mocking his partner's naivety.

And Gordon cursed himself for ever speculating.

Because the risk of allying yourself with a faceless enforcer of justice - well, one of many, but the main one, the devastating one- was the constant temptation to humanise him. A sort of speculative game, softening the lines and brightening the highlights, playing at believing that the violent avenger went home and collapsed into bed like any normal person. Had limits, perhaps, of endurance. Even had friends.

And the most horrifying outcome was to find out that you were right.

"I can't carry that," he said, hushed as their entire underlife of secrets, fragile as the lies. "I can't."

"You can, Gordon. That's why I'm asking you."

"So you can give up whenever you feel like it with perfect peace of mind? No. We're two, remember? You don't get to leave this on me." He was the only one shaking and now, perversely, he resented it, even though not long ago fear had rioted at the thought of fragility in his partner. It had been _you can't fall: if I fall then you can't. _Now it was only _Now__ we're two. _

"I need your word."

"You don't. You won't."

"_Gordon._" His partner shifted forward, fingers digging into his shoulder. "You're the only one I _can_ ask. I need this...assurance." His eyes were lightless and tired; a perfect reflection of Gordon's own but he only just recognised them. "Please."

It was a first, the plea, and the prickling between his temples ground to a dull ache with the weight of it. Irrevocable. He watched the desperation in his partner's eyes, hard with the possibility of breaking, and he swallowed at his recognition of the thought he saw in them.

_If I fall, you can't. _

"Alright. Alright. But I'm making sure you know that I'm only agreeing to this because I don't believe that you'll ever put me in that position. Not now." He remembered his son's face when Batman was the only thing in the world holding him up: he remembered it because that was his son and he was terrified and so relieved, and he remembered it for the echoes. The look in Batman's eyes as he caught hold of Gotham's mythology and sacrificed himself to stop it collapsing. Gordon had suspected for a while and he'd known **_then_** exactly who it was he was dealing with, why backtrack now? (Because I was starting to think you were just a dream, he'd almost said before.)

The same eyes were predator sharp on his face now. Gordon frowned back, doing his best to embody determination, to give his friend something to hold on to. It didn't matter that he was only human. It only mattered that he was there.

"Was beginning to think you'd given up," the diminished growl confided softly, unwinding from the barest hint of a smile, barely detectable on the visible portions of Batman's face. Gordon blinked, taken aback.

"No." He thought about it. "Never." Snorted. "Too pigheaded."

"True."

Gordon just had time to splutter a little at this and wonder at the way that half established smile had become a smirk before his partner receded back into the hospitable shadows, escaping his corporeality as soon as he had established it.

"Batman," he called. The shadows seemed attentive. "Whatever the city thinks, whatever _you_ think, I know you at least this well. You won't need that promise."

No return to visibility, but, "I know. I don't think I could break a faith as strong as yours."

And damn, Gordon thought. Last word again.

_Catch me: you have wings. _

1

("It's a miracle," she gasped, arms around her son and clinging, tears finally unreserved in their fall. The boy tried to blow strands of her hair out of his face, which was still set in the mixture of surprise and relief which indicated that he was happy not to be yelled at even if he didn't understand quite what the fuss was about. His cheeks were slightly hollowed and his eyelids drooped with an accumulation of exhaustion, but otherwise he seemed unscathed.

Gordon leaned against the wall beside Stevens, shaking his head in wonderment and disbelief as he watched them.

"The kid was walking to Metropolis for over a week. It _is_ a miracle he's still alive," Stevens said, catching his Commissioner's eye. Gordon had to agree. With only the backpack of food and drink he'd smuggled to school and nearly eight days of unsheltered travel in the general direction of Gotham's sunnier sister, the boy had escaped any number of harrowing endings apparently by shear dumb luck. It amazed Gordon that he hadn't given up and turned back until some helpful had finally found him wandering.

"Apparently he was following those rumours their papers are carrying," Stevens continued, flipping the boy's file back and forth aimlessly between his hands as he spoke. "About some primary colour version of a vigilante they've got over there - been going about pulling kittens out of trees." He quirked a brow ironically. "Could do with one of those, couldn't we?"

Gordon snorted, eyes drawn again to the concentrated joy on the mother's face, the safe state of the child against all the odds. It was hard to use the label miracle when, in his memory, the other outstanding cases stood stark in all their hopelessness and his past failures mocked from the galleries. But there was this. And even if Barbara hadn't smiled involuntarily at him from over the table this morning, and even if he hadn't passed a few days without any irritating invites, and even if a case never resolved itself favourably for him again, there would still be this and something else too, heavy in his chest and on his shoulders but also warm, and maybe even enough. )

"I daresay we can make do with what we've got," he said.

1

AN: I...don't know if this is comprehensible or not. Please don't eat me. If it doesn't make sense I will take it down and kick it until it does, guarrantee!

I had to resist writing _Oh the humanity _at various parts in this chapter. This is probably a bad thing.

May do a reveal fic later, possibly even in this continuity. Incidentally, I don't know if this came across, but each chapter had a theme: Hope, charity and in this case Faith. It was fun trying to center things around them, although Charity is rather sketchy and superficial in its use of an actual fundraiser rather than charity-as-love. This is because hope was initially the overall idea - and still is - and then I thought it would be cool to do a faith-hope-love three chapter thing - after finishing the second chapter. So the fundraiser is me being lucky or my subconscious being a genius. I personally am objectively convinced of the latter, of course.

I need to write something action adventure-y with sparse prose and a tight focus on actual physical events. This will probably never happen.


End file.
